


The Recovery

by dustyfluorescent



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-18
Updated: 2012-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-29 18:06:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyfluorescent/pseuds/dustyfluorescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dead. John is grieving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Recovery

**Author's Note:**

> Set after The Reichenbach Fall.

_One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this._

John spends the first two days after Sherlock's death just sitting in their flat, waiting for something to change, whatever. For hours, he just sits in his chair, staring at the empty one opposite him, the one that used to be Sherlock's, wondering at how everything feels so hollow, so foreign. A dull ache, far too familiar, settles inside him. _Enough of this for a lifetime, far too much_. He listens to the clock tick, the traffic outside; wondering how it doesn't get any easier. Every inhale is a new sharp of pain, a rude awakening, a realisation - he's gone.

After the funeral, he doesn't go back for two months. He can't. There's a sense of finality to funerals, as if he should have already accepted this because it's over now, and he hasn't. It isn't over, not for him, and while everyone else forgets, he never will. The wound is still brand new, and it's not showing any signs of healing.

He still has dreams of Sherlock, just ordinary days, only days with Sherlock were never ordinary at all. Hiding packs of cigarettes inside skulls, finding body parts where normal people keep their milk and butter. Picking bits of evidence from his breakfast bacon. Playing Cluedo once and then not ever again, because apparently playing by the rules is not important to someone with superior skills of deduction. Losing girlfriend after girlfriend because of his emotionally stunted flatmate's inconsiderate comments, and in the end, not minding one bit. Because in the end, it had felt like finding your other half.

From every single one of those dreams, he wakes up happy and content, and makes tea for two. It takes him a while to remember, and when he does, it's like breathing with bits of glass lodged in your throat, and he wonders how he could ever have forgotten.

There are no fingers in the fridge, and all the lab equipment is neatly packed away in boxes that Mrs Hudson has labelled. John can't bear to take them away.

Keeping away helps for a bit (it doesn't really, but it helps to pretend), but the reason he originally moved in with Sherlock still stands. He really has nobody, and in the end, he has no choice but to go back. He can't keep crashing on Lestrade's sofa until the end of his days, and now that Sherlock's gone, he can't really handle being around his sister anymore like he used to (he has no idea why). He thinks about moving out, but in the end, decides against it. He couldn't. Not really. The flat, everything that happened there, is still all he has.

At least John doesn't need to worry about rent anymore, which is nice, because he really couldn't afford it on his own. Turns out that Sherlock was bloody rich, and he's left all of his money to John. He was so rich, in fact, that as far as John can tell, he wouldn't have needed a flat-share at all. John tries not to think about that too much. The amount of things that little fact makes him feel is a little bit overwhelming.

 _I was so alone, and I owe you so much._

John keeps breaking for almost three years, and then, little by little, he starts getting better, as well. He has no choice. This world is for the living, and those left behind must make do, no matter how hard it may seem. He thinks about it, though, there's no denying. Once or twice he thinks about just giving up, and following Sherlock to wherever he's gone. But in the end, John is too good a man for that, too honourable, too brave. He's been close to death before, and he doesn't want that again, not really. As long as he's living, there is a possibility that one day, things will get better. If he gives up, all hope will be lost. And he isn't the kind of man to lose all hope. Not ever.

So it goes. The breaking never really stops, and he'll never be quite the man he got used to being. Everything leaves a mark, and John is aware that he has more marks on his soul than an average man, but he's strong. He can do this, he can build his life again, like he has before. Sherlock Holmes was the greatest man he's ever known; his best friend and the love of his life, the most wonderful human being he has ever met, and never has he ever known anyone else with a heart quite like his. Nobody will ever come even close; this he knows. But he will be fine. Maybe, and one day. That is how time works on people, that's the effect it has on grief.

Three years and two months later, John has a nightmare that's worse than any other he's ever had. He can't remember anything afterwards, but he wakes up sweating, crying, gasping for air, falling. At three in the morning, he sits in the dim light of the streetlamps outside his window, and holds a gun in his shaking hand, stroking the trigger, wondering. Maybe he isn't strong enough. Maybe he can't bear it, after all. There is an easy way out, and he nearly takes it.

Then he puts the gun down, and makes his way downstairs. He drinks a glass of water, and then he just leans against the sink for a good while, trying his best to stop shaking. He stays up for the rest of the night, sitting in Sherlock's chair, wrapped up in a blanket, just waiting for the horror to pass. It doesn't.

In the morning, he slowly gets up, takes a shower, dresses, and heads out. He's out of milk, and he could do with something to eat, even though he's not really hungry at all. His head is in a cloud of sort, and nothing around him really registers. He gets the milk and forgets to think about food, but can't find the energy to care. John is vaguely aware that he's worse than he's been in ages, but he tells himself it's just because he hasn't slept. It has nothing to do with the fact that he will never be fine, that this will never end, and he just has to get used to it.

He opens the front door and climbs up the stairs, exhausted, mentally fighting away a headache. He's too tired to even fear the nightmares right now. All he wants to do is sleep. As he opens to the door to their flat, he immediately notices that someting is different. It's not bad, and it's not unfamiliar, it's just something he isn't used to anymore. He stands in the doorway, looking around, blinking. Everything is just as it should be.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair, absently stroking the strings of his violin, not making any sound. He lifts his gaze to meet John's, and the corner of his mouth turns up to a smile.

Their flat, John realises. That's what he's been thinking all this time. Still theirs, forever theirs, because Sherlock isn't something he can just delete.

"John. Good to see you. It's been a while."

 _No one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so there._


End file.
